Page 56 of Forever Flames: Padraig & Stevie
She’s working incredibly long days. Full of tours and walk-throughs and staying late for events nobody else wants to manage. As a junior event planner, she’s understandably eager and determined to prove herself. Wears her blazer like armor. Swaps her sneakers for pointed flats like a true New Yorker.
When she’s home, Stevie talks about floral arrangements and catering minimums like they’re war stories. I listen, nod, try to follow. She rattles off the details like she’s surprised she gets to be part of it. I love seeing her so excited about her career.
I’m proud. And gutted. At the same time.
She fits here.
Meanwhile, I’ve spent three straight days feeling like a loser, eating dollar pizza and scribbling unfinished lyrics on coffee shop napkins trying to get ready for the studio. Liam and Felicity are at each other’s throats. Linus is trying to figure out how to stay in the country if we tour next summer.
A big fucking “if.”
Don’t get me started on Felicity’s obsession with me. Fuck. I can’t bear to even think about it.
Trudging up to Stevie’s apartment, I hope none of her roommates are there. I could use some time to veg out until she gets home. I open the door. No such luck.
Rina, the nurse, is nowhere to be seen. Probably working the night shift at Mount Sinai. Mel, who does something with investments on Wall Street, is in the kitchen. Liv is filming herself doing an aggressive YouTube workout. Frankie’s out on the fire escape smoking.
No one says hi. They don’t exactly make me feel unwelcome. It’s more like they don’t clock me at all.
My phone buzzes:
Stevie:Wanna meet me in midtown? Drinks w/ work friends. No pressure.
I read it twice before answering.
Of course I want to go. I came here after Thanksgiving to be with her for a month, not to sit on her lumpy futon eating bodega sandwiches and counting fire escape pigeons.
We’ve barely had a full night alone. Stevie’s roommates are always buzzing through, the walls are paper-thin. She’s either heading to work or dragging herself home from it, too tired to finish a sentence.
I don’t blame her. Not really.
She’s killing it.
My girl’s amazing. But…I came here hoping for more.
Reconnecting. Talking. Spending time together.
Fucking.
I tap out a reply.
Me:Yeah. Tell me where. I’ll come find you.
Three dots flicker, disappear. Then:
Stevie:You sure? It’s just boring work people.
I stare at the screen for a beat before sending back:
Me:I want to see you. Boring people and all.
I pull on my jacket and grab my subway pass. Even if I’m the outsider now. The tagalong, long-distance boyfriend plopped into a world I don’t understand—I want to be where she is.
For as long as she’ll let me.
The bar has a kind of curated elegance you don’t see on the West Coast. It smells like citrus peel, money, and whatever cologne the waiters are all wearing. Velvet bar stools. Gilt-edged menus. Voices kept to a murmur under the thump of slow jazz oozing from hidden speakers.
As usual, I’m out of place in my torn Levi’s and beat-up leather jacket.
